Sweater Weather
by kingredbeard
Summary: the one where Sherlock is an independent soul and John wants to go on a date or two.


_For my babe, Biancactus. Ily yo_

…

Sherlock was brought back into reality by a hard shove to his shoulder. His flatmate Mike was standing beside him, a suitcase in hand. Sherlock frowned and set his sketchpad down.

"Where're you going?" he asked curiously, moving forward and leaning his elbows on his knees.

"I'm leaving this flat, Sherlock," Mike fumed. "Which you would _know_ if you had been paying _any_ sort of attention for the last month."

Sherlock's frown deepened as he looked to the left, racking his brain. "I don't seem to recall you saying anything about moving…"

"That's the point, Sherlock! I can't live with a flatmate who is socially _comatose_!" Mike seethed, his voice rising with every syllable.

Sherlock recoiled slightly. He had never seen Mike angry before. "I'm sorry. But I told you when you moved in that I sometimes get caught up in my work. I mean… you know I have work in progress and I might have deleted it if-"

"When's my birthday, Sherlock?" Mike cut him off quietly, his steely gazed fixed on Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Calm down, Mike, we have ages until your birthday comes arou-"

"My birthday was two months ago. _Two_ _bloody_ _months_," Mike shook his head, a short laugh breaking through his calm composure. "I'm not putting up with this anymore. Goodbye Sherlock."

He turned and left the apartment, dropping his key onto the mini table by the door. Sherlock heard the thud of his suitcase down the stairs and then silence. He didn't bother getting up to look out of the window. He didn't need the cliché.

….

A bird squawked when a child tried to grab onto its wing. Sherlock watched in silence as it fled to the nearest tree, protesting indignantly. The child giggled and ran back to the swing set.

Sherlock's pencil tapped against the side of his sketchbook in a steady rhythm as he searched the park for inspiration. He had taken his brother's advice for once and gone outside. He had been sitting in the park since five in the morning, his sketchbook in hand and nothing had yet hit.

With a final sigh of frustration, Sherlock started packing away his sketchbook and pencils. He knew he shouldn't have listened to Mycroft, what did _he_ know about art?

Still grumbling under his breath, Sherlock lifted his head and gave the park one last look. A man sitting a few benches away under a tree with a book in hand caught his attention and Sherlock raised an eyebrow slowly. His hand steadily slid out of the bag, his graphite pencil in hand and he began sketching the man.

Sherlock's pencil scratched at the page as he captured the man in exquisite detail. Every now and then, the man would turn the page or shift his legs and Sherlock would frown just a little bit deeper because he would have to change his perspective slightly. It wasn't long before he was finished and his pencil was swirling upwards to create the tree this mystery man was leaning against.

Suddenly the man was looking towards Sherlock. With a little gasp, he hid his face partially behind the sketchbook and turned away slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock was the man smile to himself and return to his reading. Sherlock's cheeks flushed a deep red and he fought back a grin.

Sherlock's heart sank a little when he noticed how far into the book the man was. Perhaps another few minutes and he would be finished, ready to return to his home.

The bench creaked beside him and Sherlock looked to the side to find the face he had sketched not minutes ago. The man stuck his hand to shake as Sherlock scrambled to hide the sketchbook from sight.

"Hi there. I'm John Watson," the man said with a grin.

Sherlock grabbed his hand and shook it lightly. "Uh, Sherlock Holmes," he stumbled over his words slightly and blushed brighter.

"Aw. You're blushing?" John laughed and looked down at Sherlock's bag, where the corner of the sketchbook was poking out. "What were you sketching before?" he asked curiously.

"Uh, nothing," Sherlock shrugged and pushed the bag away. John laughed again and leant over Sherlock, grabbing the sketchbook out and flipping it open.

He fell silent and Sherlock held his breath. John looked up and locked eyes with Sherlock, a soft smile on his face. "This is really good," he said, looking back down at the page.

Sherlock followed John's line of sight and saw that he had opened to his test sketches of the flowers in the park. He let out his breath in a gust and closed his eyes. Safe for now.

John flicked through a couple more pages before handing the sketchbook back. "You're _really_ good," he said quietly, linking his fingers together in his lap.

"Thank you," Sherlock replied, tucking his bag behind him.

Silence descended between them and John circled his thumbs around slowly. Suddenly, his mouth was moving and Sherlock was too preoccupied with watching to listen. It took a few seconds for Sherlock to process it and he blinked owlishly at John.

"Pardon," he deadpanned, his forehead creasing. "What was that?"

"Did you…want to go to dinner with me sometime?" John repeated uncertainly.

"Oh. Um, yes. That would be lovely," Sherlock said, flustered. "When?"

"I was thinking maybe around eight o'clock?" John offered.

Sherlock nodded. "Alright. Where were you thinking?" he asked slowly. His heart was beating far too fast for it too be completely healthy and John's smile was derailing his train of thought at a rapid pace.

"The diner near Baker Street?" John asked, smiling softly. "I know it's nothing fancy but they do good food in there."

"No, no, it's fine. I actually live on Baker Street, so that'll be perfect," Sherlock stuttered, his words tumbling from his mouth in a steady rush.

John chewed thoughtfully on his lip for a second before frowning. "Sorry, uh, but you realize this is me asking you out, right?" he asked. "On a date?"

Sherlock nodded so fast he saw whiplash in his future. "Yes, I know," he said.

"Good," John nodded slowly. "Well, I'll see you at eight then?"

Before Sherlock could reply, John was already up and walking away. It immediately came to Sherlock's attention that John walked with a slight limp. He found himself frowning as he tried to work out what exactly had happened before John got too far away to see.

Another hour passed before Sherlock returned home, art bag in hand and the lingering thought of John in his mind.

…

Sherlock buttoned his shirt and leant back to check his reflection in the other room. He squinted and frowned at his hair. Walking over to the mirror, he laid a hand over his ridiculously curly hair and pursed his lips.

"_Shit_," he said to himself. "What in the bloody hell am I supposed to do with this?"

After a while, he gave up and ruffled his hands through a few times and hoped to God that John liked fluffy birds-nest hair.

He grabbed his jacket and left the apartment, remembering to lock the door behind himself. He took the stairs two at a time and knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door. She answered in her dressing gown and a cup of tea in one hand.

"Yes, dear?" she asked kindly, partly hiding behind the door.

"Mrs. Hudson, I've seen you in your dressing gown before no need to hide," Sherlock said. "I'll probably be out late tonight. I thought I'd let you know just in case I come back and you think I'm a robber."

"Thank you, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said. "Got a date, then?"

Sherlock smiled wide and stepped back. "Yes, I do. Wish me luck!" He turned on his heel and left 221B. He hopped down the steps out front and begun walking to the diner down the road. He slipped on his coat and flipped the collar up.

He arrived with a minute to spare and went inside the diner. John was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock leant against the wall and waited patiently for John to show up.

Twenty minutes passed and Sherlock was still alone and frankly, a little worried. He knew he shouldn't have said yes to a complete stranger but there was something bout John Watson had drawn him in.

"Sorry I'm late," said a voice at Sherlock's shoulder. "Got stuck in some dreadful traffic."

"No problem," Sherlock replied with a shrug. "Where did you want to sit?" he turned to John and stifled a gasp.

John had ditched his formal attire from the park and had gone with black jeans and a white sweater. He grinned at Sherlock and grabbed his hand, tugging him over to a booth. They both slid into the one side and Sherlock smiled to himself.

A waitress was by their booth in moments, handing them menus. "Drinks for you fellas?"

"Uh, a water please," Sherlock asked.

John rolled his eyes. "Surprise me," he told the lady with a smile.

"Alright. I'll be back in two ticks for your order boys," she told them, disappearing back behind the counter.

Sherlock studied the menu and looked at John out the corner of his eyes. "What looks good?" he asked, turning his head to see his date better.

The corners of John's mouth turned up in a smile. "I'd reply to that, but I might make you blush again," he said quietly, winking. Sherlock felt his face heat up and John laughed. "Oh my god, really."

"Stop it, it's not funny," Sherlock protested, hiding his face behind the menu.

"I think I like making you blush," John smiled, looking back down at his menu. "Might do it more often."

The waitress returned with their drinks, setting them on the table. She pushed Sherlock his water and gave John a soda. "There you are," she said. "Now, what did you want to order food-wise?"

"I think I'll take the chicken salad, thank you," John said, handing back the menu.

"The linguini pasta for me," Sherlock smiled, offering his menu. "Thanks."

"Your food'll be out soon," the waitress nodded. She turned and went back behind the counter.

John and Sherlock sat in silence for a while, the diner's other patron's chatter being the only sound echoing around them. Sherlock jumped slightly when he felt John's fingers intertwine with his own. He hid his smile and John laughed quietly.

"So tell me about yourself?" John offered.

"Uhm…. Well, I love art in general, music is a passion of mine, reading is a big part of me… I don't know. What do you want to find out?" Sherlock shrugged.

John half-smiled and shook his head. "I don't know. What do you do on the weekends, how many siblings do you have, what'd your favourite drink?"

"On the weekends I often paint. Or compose. I have one stupid brother who goes by the name of Mycroft and my favourite drink is non-existent," Sherlock relayed.

"Alright then."

"So what about you?" Sherlock asked, leaning his chin in his hand.

"Well…on the weekends I might go out with friends or stay in and watch a bit of telly. I have a sister called Harriet but she would claw my eyes out if I called her anything but Harry. My favourite drink is coffee."

Sherlock nodded. "What's it like?" he asked curiously, leaning forward on his elbow. "Going out on the weekends, I mean. Is it fun?"

John smiled. "I don't know. Is it?" he looked at Sherlock pointedly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I haven't the faintest," he said. "That would be why I asked you."

John laughed and closed his eyes, putting his head on the table. "Sherlock, do you know what day it is?" he asked, intrigued.

"No…. Why?"

"It's Saturday, Sherlock. You _are_ out on the weekend."

"Oh," Sherlock frowned. "Huh. It's more fun than I _expected_ weekends to be."

"Well that's good," John chuckled. "Means I'm doing a good job."

"Here's your order," the waitress said, appearing with two plates. She set them down and smiled. "If there's anything else, let me know." She departed to serve the next table, leaving Sherlock and John alone.

Both began to eat their meals, a comfortable silence falling over them. After a while, John started up conversation again and from there the date flowed well. The meal finished and they both walked outside together after splitting the bill.

Sherlock turned his collar up as they stepped outside. While they were inside, snow had started to fall, leaving a fine layer of white over everything it touched. Sherlock let out a long breath and watched the cloud swirl away from him. John laughed and grabbed his hand, linking their fingers.

"What?" he said in defence. "It's cold."

"I know it's cold." Sherlock said back, smiling. He exhaled and watched the white vapour curl in the air in front of his face. "But there is one thing I wanted to say."

"Anything," John nodded.

"I had a lot of fun tonight. I wanted to know if you would consider doing this again."

John laughed. "I like the way you talk, Sherlock Holmes. Yes, I would love to do this again sometime."

Sherlock nodded slowly. He bit his lip and leant in to press his cold lips against John's cheek. John fell silent and smiled to himself.

"You missed," he said quietly.

Sherlock frowned. "Pardon?"

"You missed," John repeated. He leant forward into tiptoes to kiss Sherlock on the lips. Sherlock raised his hands to cup John's face; enjoying the warmth he gave against the snow.

John pulled back to study Sherlock's face for a moment. He took particular notice of Sherlock's pink cheeks and cold nose. He pressed a kiss to either cheeks and screwed his nose up against the freezing temperature.

"You're cold as fuck," John relayed back to Sherlock. "Well…to be fair, it is almost three degrees past freezing at this particular spot," he raised an eyebrow. "We should go somewhere warmer."

"Oh…yes, um…. yes," Sherlock stuttered, nodding his head quickly.

John laughed and dropped a sneaky kiss on Sherlock's cheek before grabbing his hand again. "Lead the way then."

…

Sherlock and John stumbled into 221B at around 11pm, giggling like school children. Mrs. Hudson pressed her ear against the door and listened intently, gasping when she heard John's voice. A smile crept its way onto her face and she fled from the door. She knew when privacy was needed.

John used his grip on Sherlock's hand to manoeuvre him around to the wall. He grabbed Sherlock's other hand and pinned them both above Sherlock's head against the wall. John pressed kisses against Sherlock's neck, making the taller man whine for more. John grinned and began to suck under Sherlock's jaw, revelling in the noises Sherlock was making against him.

"John…" Sherlock whispered. "Upstairs."

John let Sherlock's hands down and allowed himself to be tugged up the flight of stairs and into Sherlock's apartment. Sherlock closed the door behind them and didn't hesitate to kiss John.

John took control immediately and walked Sherlock backwards until they hit the wall by the window. Their kisses were hot and wet, with John's knee pressed between Sherlock's thighs. John found out he liked drawing the little gasps and groans from Sherlock as he kept him pressed against the wall.

"Couch," Sherlock gasped quietly. "Please."

John walked back with Sherlock until they fell onto the couch. John straddled Sherlock and kissed up his neck until he found the mark he left a few minutes ago. He resumed sucking Sherlock's neck, enjoying the tiny whines Sherlock created.

A shrill ring from Sherlock's phone startled the both of them. John stopped kissing Sherlock and sat back, frowning. "What's that?" he asked, slightly out of breath.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Checking caller ID, he sighed. "I probably have to take this," he rolled his eyes. "I'm so sorry, John."

John shook his head and sat beside Sherlock. He noticed his sweater had been removed at some point. He didn't remember which. It was lying across the coffee table beside Sherlock's purple button up.

"What did you want, brother?" Sherlock snapped. He was noticeably out of breath and a small patch of his neck was blossoming into a nice hickey. John grinned, proud of his handiwork.

"I told you, I'm an _artist_. I don't want to take those jobs," Sherlock seethed. "I've told you a thousand fucking times that I don't want to be a detective… Yes, I _know_ I have a high IQ and I wish to use it for anything _but_ the things _you_ want, Mycroft."

John raised his eyebrows and retrieved his sweater. "Stop calling, Mycroft. I've lost the ability to care anymore." Sherlock ended the call and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I'm sorry about that, John," he apologized.

"It's fine… I should be going anyway. Getting quite late," John said, standing up. "I had fun."

John grabbed a pen from the coffee table and scrawled his number onto a blank piece of paper. "There you go. Call me sometime, yeah?" He smiled and kissed Sherlock's cheek.

"I will," Sherlock said as he stood up. "Promise."

John nodded and left the apartment, closing the door after himself. Sherlock resisted the urge to scream and throw something. His first night of fun in years and Mycroft had to ruin it like he always did. Sherlock had always suspected there were hidden cameras so Mycroft could pounce on any ounce of fun Sherlock could drag out of the world, but a quick and thorough search of the apartment had slashed the theory.

"Hello? Everyone decent?" Mrs. Hudson stuck her head through and smiled. "I saw him leaving. Handsome fellow…."

"Not now Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock dismissed, throwing himself onto the couch. "I'm not in the mood."

"So it didn't go well then?" Mrs. Hudson tutted. "Shame. He seemed nice. You need someone nice, you know, Sherlock."

"Please go away Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock groaned. "Go to bed or something."

Mrs. Hudson frowned. "Why you got to be so rude all the time, Sherlock? I was just telling you that he looked like a nice fellow." With that, she shook her head and left the apartment.

Sherlock sighed and rolled over on the couch, pulling his knees up. Sleep didn't come to him easily, the events of the night flinging around his head and John's lips buzzing against his own.

...

Sunday (3:32pm)

_Hello. Wanted to know if you wished to meet up again?_

**Sunday (3:34pm)**

_**I'd love to. Give a place and a time, ill be there. Eager as ever**_

Sunday (3:34pm)

_My place. Anytime_

**Sunday (3:35pm)**

_**and I thought I was the eager one….ill be over soon**_

Sunday (3:36pm)

_What can I say? ive missed you_

**Sunday (3:38pm)**

_**missed my kisses you bastard**_

Sunday (3:39pm)

_perhaps. you did give my neck a fair go_

**Sunday (3:40pm)**

_**always happy to try again ;)**_

"You still texting that boy?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "I hope he's a lot better than the last, Sherlock…"

"He's a lot better, Mrs. Hudson, don't worry," Sherlock replied, looking down at his phone.

"I hope so," Mrs. Hudson frowned down at her teacup. "I did _hate_ that awful man…"

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said warningly, glancing up at her.

"Sorry, Sherlock," she apologized. "It's just…I don't want to see you stuck in another relationship like your last. You know I hated it when he hit you. I could hear it all the way downstairs and-"

"_Mrs. Hudson_," Sherlock repeated firmly. "Change of subject. Now."

"Alright, dear… so what's his name?"

Sherlock sighed. "His name is John Watson and I don't see how it's any of your business."

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes. "I like to know when new things happen to you. All you ever do is sit in here and write poetry."

"I compose and paint as well," Sherlock said defensively.

"Oh, sorry. Didn't realize you were multitalented. I'll call the papers," Mrs. Hudson stood, leaving her empty cup on the coffee table. "Have fun with your date, love." She blew Sherlock a kiss and left.

"Insufferable," Sherlock muttered. He grabbed a notebook and a pen from off the floor and began doodling in the back to pass the time. By the time he had the skull on the mantelpiece, there was a knock at the door.

Sherlock stood and walked over to the door, opening it slowly. "Yes?"

John stood in the doorway, wearing a blue jumper and jeans. "Hello," he smiled.

"Hi… Do come in," Sherlock stood aside and let John in. "I see you like jumpers."

"Ah, yes. I do quite like jumpers…." John looked down at his chest and frowned. He looked back up to Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. "Anything in particular planned for today?"

"Not really."

"Good. I'd like the pick up where we left off."

John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and walked him back onto the couch. Sherlock fell back onto the couch and John sat on top of him, eagerly pressing his mouth to Sherlock's.

Sherlock groaned as John moved his hips downward and bit on his lip. John grinned and made for Sherlock's neck. "Always happy to try again," John murmured as he sucked under Sherlock's jaw.

"Shut up and continue doing what you're doing," Sherlock panted, grabbing John's jumper and pulling it over his head. He threw it onto the floor and started on his own shirt.

"Shame," John said, moving back to Sherlock's lips. "I liked that jumper. Although, as it is with most clothes, I like the shirt you're wearing but it would look so much _better_ on the floor, don't you think?"

"I'm trying," Sherlock huffed, pulling himself out of the shirt. "There."

John grinned and kissed Sherlock deeply. Sherlock bit back a moan as John's hands moved down to his waist. His thumbs slid into Sherlock's belt loops and stayed there, John sitting upon Sherlock.

"Are you sure about this?" John asked quietly. "I mean… we met yesterday. Are you sure you want to go this far with practically a stranger?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'm sure. There's something different about you, John Watson."

"Right."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Did you know you're wearing far too much clothing?" he asked quietly.

"Well then," John replied, unbuttoning his top button. "_Fix it_."

Sherlock stopped breathing for a moment before hastily unbuttoning John's shirt. He threw it onto the ground to join the rest and snagged his thumb in the waistline of John's pants, pulling John's body flush against his.

He then proceeded to kiss John, running his tongue over John's lips until his mouth opened under his own. It took Sherlock less than a minute to find out exactly how to make John moan. He moved his hips and rubbed against John, the thin layer of clothing between them far too much.

John tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair and pulled him impossibly closer. He pressed their lips together and Sherlock couldn't help but moan into John's mouth.

"John, please," Sherlock murmured as John broke away to unbutton Sherlock's pants and undo the belt.

"I'm bloody trying," John said. He finally got Sherlock's pants off and created a line of tiny kisses up his body. Sherlock leant his head back against the wall and took a moment to regain his breath.

John didn't give Sherlock long before he was kissing him again, their near-naked bodies pressed close. John, a smile lighting his face, lowered Sherlock into a lying-down position and began kissing back down Sherlock.

Sherlock gasped for air as John's lips met his hip and he refrained from bucking upwards. John moved his hands to Sherlock's thighs and pulled his boxers off. He brought his lips close to the man's swollen cock, slowly swallowing the whole of him, inch by inch. Sherlock thrashed beneath him, bucking into John's mouth and fisting his fingers into John's hair. "Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

John withdrew himself from Sherlock and grinned. "Not tonight, love."

"Oh, shut up," said Sherlock and John bore down on him again, taking the entire length in one go. Sherlock threw his head back and breathed deeply; trying but failing to hold back the loud noises he was creating.

Sherlock bucked beneath John, digging his nails into John's waist and attempting to pull him closer. John pulled his body up, letting Sherlock's length slide out of him only to bring himself down again to envelop him again. He repeated the motion again and again, relishing in the gasps escaping Sherlock.

Sherlock's face contorted as he came into John's mouth with a yell. John swallowed, screwing up his face and sliding back up to meet Sherlock's lips.

"Impressive," said Sherlock, breathless. "I really hope Mrs. Hudson didn't hear that."

"Who's Mrs. Hudson?" John asked, sitting back on the couch and grabbing Sherlock's shirt.

"My land lady. She lives downstairs," Sherlock caught his shirt as John threw it back to him. "Also the door is wide open."

John gasped and jumped up, slamming the door shut. "Oh my god."

"Bit late now, don't you think?"

John buried his face in his hands and sat down on top of Sherlock. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his voice muffled.

"I was a bit preoccupied with your mouth on my dick, thank you," Sherlock frowned. "Didn't want to spoil the fun."

Sherlock reached around John to snatch his pants up off the floor, pulling them on. John frowned, as he was jolted around on Sherlock's lap. "Pass me my shirt, will you?" he asked.

"You're closer," Sherlock pointed out, lying his head back against the couch.

"But I'm lazier," John retorted, laying back against Sherlock.

"I doubt that entirely," Sherlock sighed. He wiggled his shoulders, causing John to slide off and onto the floor. "Now you're definitely closer."

"That wasn't very nice," John said, buttoning up his newly found shirt. "Don't you have a heart?"

"Well, I've been often informed I don't have one," Sherlock responded. "Sorry."

The door opened and Mrs. Hudson stepped in. "Sorry Sherlock, but I heard a shout and the door slammed so I-" She stopped and took in John sitting on the ground, his shirt half unbuttoned. "You must be John."

"Ah, yes. Please leave, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, not moving an inch.

"I've interrupted. My apologies, boys. Have fun." She turned and closed the door.

John laughed, standing up. "She seemed nice," he said.

"She's alright," Sherlock said, closing his eyes. "She comes in here a lot though. Always nagging me about my paint getting on the walls and the paper everywhere and how I should straighten my brushes, perhaps give them a wash every now and then. Simply horrifying."

"Suppose she's just looking out for you," John smiled.

"I'm hungry," Sherlock frowned, getting up from the couch and walking into the kitchen. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes actually…."

Sherlock opened a few cupboards and began to search for food. John opened the fridge and immediately closed it when he found himself face-to-face with a skull. He leant against the fridge for a moment, colleting his thoughts, before turning to Sherlock.

"Why is there a skull in the fridge?" he asked as calmly as possible.

"Oh, is that where it went?" Sherlock said, turning around. "I was looking for him. Huh."

John huffed and closed his eyes. "That doesn't answer my question, _Sherlock_, why is there a _HEAD IN THE FRIDGE_?"

"He's a friend," Sherlock replied distantly, his head in a cupboard. He turned to look a John, frowning. "And when I say friend…."

John shook his head and moved to one of the cupboards. Sherlock watched him closely for a moment before sighing.

"I'm not a serial killer, John."

"I don't mind," John shrugged. "As long as I'm not the next victim."

Sherlock hid a smile and closed the cupboard. "How about we get take-out?"

"That sounds like an excellent idea."

….

Fast-forward seven months and Sherlock was learning how to knit. He was, of course, using YouTube but then again, how did anyone learn anything differently nowadays? John had permanently moved in when Sherlock's rent increased. He had shot the wall. Mrs. Hudson wasn't pleased.

Sherlock enjoyed having John around. He didn't often get angry when Sherlock fazed out of the world, he just rolled his eyes and kissed Sherlock's cheek. He said nice things about Sherlock's paintings and respected the privacy of Sherlock's notebook. He was the first one to do so. It felt nice.

"What're you doing?" John asked, smiling in bemusement.

Sherlock turned and held up the knitting needles and wool. "I'm learning to knit," he stated. "Obviously."

"Yes, but why?" John asked, sitting down in his usual chair.

"Because I can," Sherlock replied distractedly, unpausing the video.

John sat for a moment, watching Sherlock struggle to thread the needles through the wool to create what appeared to be a scarf. He bit back laughter when Sherlock almost stabbed himself in the eye.

"You right, love?" he asked, a broad smile on his face.

"I'm fine. Get the door, will you?"

"But there's no-one t-"

Someone knocking on the wood panelling around the door interrupted John. He sighed and stood up, walking over. "Hello?"

A man in a tailored suit walked in and smiled. "Hello. Do you know if Sherlock is here?" he asked. He spoke with a tone of authority ringing clearly throughout the room. John didn't like him.

"Yes. He's, uh…. knitting."

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, putting down his knitting and closing the laptop. "Surely it's not another case for me?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and leant on his walking cane. "No. Mummy wanting me to visit you more often so here I am."

"Mummy?" John questioned. "This is your _brother_, Mycroft?"

"Well, yes," Sherlock frowned. "Honestly, John, how many other Mycroft's do you think there are in this world?"

John shrugged and sat back down in his chair. Mycroft laid his coat over his other arm and sighed. "Brother, when are you going to grow out of this phase?"

"It's no a phase, Mycroft, it's-"

"Yes, yes. It's 'who you are', I know. I was simply asking when you when going to drop this mindset and put your brain to good use," Mycroft waved off Sherlock's words.

"I think his brain is being put to excellent use," John argued.

"Oh, shut up." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"_MYCROFT_," Sherlock shouted, his eyes ablaze.

John jumped and looked at Sherlock, startled. Mycroft met Sherlock's gaze and raised an eyebrow. "My apologies," he said to John, smiling coldly.

"Go away please," Sherlock said, pulling his legs up under himself. "I don't want to talk to you."

"Always so _childish_, brother."

"At least I said please."

John stood and rolled his shoulder's back. "Would you like me to put the kettle on?" he asked.

Sherlock looked over to John and nodded. "Yes thank you. None for Mycroft. His diet appears to be failing and he doesn't need the extra sugar."

"How funny of you," Mycroft seethed.

John walked into the kitchen and grabbed two mugs. He kept a sharp ear out on the conversation in the lounge as he began preparing the tea.

"Please take this case, Sherlock. The police force barely knows what they're doing."

"Isn't that usually the case?"

"Anderson got fired."

"No he didn't. You're getting desperate, brother dear."

Sigh. "What will it take for you to drop this 'indie misfit' lifestyle?"

"A bullet in the temple."

"No need to be so dramatic."

John cleared his throat and held up Sherlock's cup of coffee. Sherlock held out his hands and John wandered over to give it to him. Sherlock rose out of his chair slightly to kiss John and whisper his thanks. John smiled to himself and sat back down, using his mug as a source of warmth for his hands.

Mycroft's eyebrows were raised impossibly high when John looked over to him. Sherlock laughed and drank from his mug. John glanced between the two, confused as ever.

"Care to explain yourself?" Mycroft asked.

"No thanks," Sherlock replied, raising his mug to Mycroft in a mock-toast. "You'd best be off."

Mycroft scoffed and turned to leave the apartment. He stopped by the door and turned on his heel. "Mummy won't be pleased." He met John's eyes and smiled wickedly. "Goodbye boys." With that, he left.

"Always so dramatic," Sherlock dismissed, drinking more of his tea.

John's eyes remained on the door. "Very superior, isn't he."

"He gets that way," Sherlock said. "He's high up in the British Government. He wants me to become a _detective_. Like I could do that."

"I think you could do that. But it's just a matter of whether you want to or not."

Sherlock stared at John, unmoving. He didn't blink. It worried John.

"You ok?"

More silence.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes. You're the first person to say that."

"To ask if you're ok?"

"No. About how it's whether I _want_ to become a detective."

"Oh."

Sherlock stood up and walked over to John, taking the cup of tea from his hand and setting it on the side table. He straddled John and leant down to kiss him. John responded automatically, his fingers tangling in Sherlock's hair to pull him closer.

John gasped as Sherlock ground his hips down. John stopped for a moment to check the door was closed before pulling Sherlock's shirt over his head and throwing it away.

The two kissed roughly and John's hands trailed down Sherlock's stomach to rest on his hips. He slid a hand inside Sherlock's trousers and took hold of his already-hard dick.

Sherlock whined and pushed John's hand further into his trousers. He wanted to feel _more_.

John pumped Sherlock quickly as Sherlock pressed his face into John's neck, breathing heavily. He bit at John's neck as they moved against each other in desperation.

Sherlock groaned against John's neck as he came in his pants. John grinned and kissed Sherlock hard, removing his hand from Sherlock's trousers and threading it through his hair. Sherlock kissed back desperately, pressing closer to John.

"Stop a moment," John panted, craning his neck. "Stop! Someone's coming up the stairs… _Shit_!"

Sherlock leapt off John and fled down the hall into the bathroom, leaving John flushed and unprepared to take any guests. John quickly wiped his hands on Sherlock's shirt and threw it under the armchair he was seated in.

There was a knock at the door. "Come in!" John called, clearing his throat.

The door opened to reveal Molly Hooper. "Hello John," she smiled. "How are you?"

"Uh, yes, I'm quite good. How about you?" John replied, flattening his hair. Sherlock's fingers had messed it up quite well and of that, John was painfully aware.

"I'm great. Got engaged," she flashed the ring at John, all smiles. "I wanted to tell you about a big party happening downtown tonight. Thought it might be right up Sherlock's alley." She glanced around. "Where _is_ Sherlock, anyway?"

"Uh, he's in-"

"Right here!" Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, wearing new trousers.

"Was just in the…shower," he lied, sitting down on the couch. "What brings you around?"

"I was just telling John about a party I thought you might be interested in. At a club downtown. It's celebrating the opening of a new art gallery. There's going to be this big party full of people who love art so I thought you might enjoy it," Molly nodded with a smile. "I'm not going. I've got plans but…I thought you might go."

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock said, grabbing his phone from off the floor. "I'll consider it. I'm quite busy at the moment."

"No you're not," John laughed. "We'll be there," he assured Molly. "Just text us the details, all right?"

…

John pulled his coat tighter around himself and shivered. "It's bloody freezing. How aren't you cold?" he demanded of Sherlock, grabbing Sherlock's hand. He would never understand how Sherlock was surviving in skinny jeans and button ups.

"Oh, I _am_ cold. I just know that it won't be cold in a club, what with all those sweaty bodies, and I figured why carry around a coat all night if I don't need one?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow down at John and tightened his grip on his hand.

"Why didn't I think of that?" John frowned.

"Because you're stupid," Sherlock stated. "In a good way, of course."

They arrived at the club, flashing the security their ID and walking inside. Music pumped through speakers in every corner, hurting Sherlock's ears. John squeezed his hand and smiled.

"Want a drink?" John yelled over the music.

"I'm fine," Sherlock called back.

"Then dance with me," John grinned, pulling Sherlock onto the dance floor.

All thoughts dropped from Sherlock's head as soon as John started dancing with him. The music pounded in his ears, John's hands on his hips, and nothing else mattered.

_**Buy it, use it, break it, fix it,  
Trash it, change it, mail - upgrade it,**_

John moved ever closer to Sherlock and moved his hips in time to the music. John could feel Sherlock's breath on his neck, his lips grazing the skin. Sherlock smiled as he pressed his knee between John's thighs.

_**Charge it, point it, zoom it, press it,  
Snap it, work it, quick - erase it,**_

John responded immediately, pulling Sherlock closer. Sherlock taunted him slowly, dancing just out of John's lips reach. Sherlock bit his lip and moved in time to the thumping bass vibrating around the room.

_**Write it, cut it, paste it, save it,  
Load it, check it, quick - rewrite it,**_

John finally found his prize when his lips met Sherlock's, the dancing bodies around them jumping up and down, bumping them from side to side. Sherlock laughed and looked up at the flashing lights. John watched Sherlock's face change in awe as the colours in the lights strobed along with the music. Sherlock grinned ear to ear as the colours flashed red to blue to green, the entire rainbow reflected in his eyes.

_**Plug it, play it, burn it, rip it,  
Drag and drop it, zip - unzip it,**_

Nothing felt real and John didn't mind.

….

"There you are!" John frowned. "I'd begun to think you'd fallen in the toilet."

"Improbable," Sherlock shook his head and blinked a couple times. "Ready to dance again?"

"Not quite. I want to finish my drink first," John said, patting the seat next to him. "You sure you don't want one?"

Sherlock grabbed John's drink and took a sip from it. "I'm fine," he smiled. He swayed slightly and closed his hand into a fist, his knuckles turning white.

"Are you alright Sherlock?" John asked, grabbing Sherlock's shoulder. "What's happened?"

"Nothing, nothing," Sherlock waved him off. "Let's go party!"

He stood and wobbled off onto the dance floor. The bass thumped into John's brain as he abandoned his drink and followed Sherlock into the mass of writhing bodies. He spotted Sherlock dancing all by himself by the centre of the dance floor, shaking his head around and jumping. He blended in with the club-goers so well it almost worried John. Sherlock's shirt had become half-unbuttoned and he danced without a singe care.

John was a stranger to the party-scene but so was Sherlock. He hadn't been like this before he went to the bathroom. Either it was one hell of a piss or Sherlock took something.

John grabbed Sherlock's hand and tugged him away, managing to get him off the dance floor. He sat him down in a chair by the bar and looked into his eyes. Sherlock tried to avoid John, whining like a toddler.

"_Jo-o-o-o-ohn_," he drew out each letter, pouting. "I just want to _da-a-a-a-ance_."

"You can dance after I've looked you over," John said. "What did you take?"

"I didn't take anything," Sherlock said. "It was only a _cigarette_, no need to get your panties in a bunch…. Now _there's_ a thought. _My_ John in panties. John can you do that for me?"

"_Concentrate_, Sherlock. Don't lie to me, what was it?"

"Ok so maybe it wasn't just a cigarette," Sherlock said, frowning. "Why are you so w-worried?"

"We're going home," John sighed, pulling out his phone.

"Party-pooper," Sherlock pouted, glaring at John like a child. "I was having fu-u-u-u-un."

"Oh well. We're going home…. Yes, Greg? Sorry to call so late but can we catch a lift home?"

…

John stumbled into 221B with Sherlock around 1am. Sherlock collapsed onto the couch and stared up at the ceiling. "John, why are we home?" he asked.

"Because you're high as a fucking kite and I wanted to go home," John sighed, sitting in his chair. "You're just lucky your atrocious singing didn't wake up Mrs. Hudson."

"Ah, Hudders. She's nice," Sherlock smiled contentedly. "Oh, John! I just remembered!" Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and stumbled over to the desk. He opened the drawer and pulled out a jumper.

"What's that?" John asked.

"I knitted it for you! You said you liked jumpers!" Sherlock walked over and sat down in John's lap, leaning his head on John's shoulder. "So I looked up how to knit and knitted a jumper! Do you love it?"

John took the jumper from Sherlock and smiled gently. "It's great," he said. Sherlock nodded and snuggled closer. "Thank you."

"That's alright," Sherlock replied. "I could make you another one. Or a scarf. The other one didn't work. I could knit you some socks. I could knit you anything, really."

"Shh," John said quietly. "Time for bed."

"But it's early," Sherlock complained, thumping his head against John's shoulder.

"Shut up and go to bed, you idiot."

"I'm sorry, John."

"We'll talk about it in the morning."

….

Sherlock removed himself from bed at precisely 1pm, his hair sticking in all directions. John was sat in his chair with a cup of tea and a sandwich when the bedroom door opened. Sherlock stumbled out in boxer shorts and nothing more, frowning at the daylight streaming through the open curtains.

"What time is it?" he asked, ruffling his hair.

"One o'clock," John replied, not taking his eyes off the paper he was reading. "About time you got up and faced humanity don't you think?"

"Humanity," Sherlock replied quietly. "Such a terrible thing."

"You didn't seem particularly fussed with it last night," John said casually, flipping the page over.

"What?" Sherlock squinted at John and headed into the kitchen. "What happened last night? I can barely remember."

"Well, we went out and we had fun," John started.

"Oh, good."

"But then you went to the bathroom. Came back high as the sky itself," John finished. A mug dropped to the floor in the kitchen, the shard skittering around the room. "Lestrade taped you on his phone."

"John, I-"

"I don't care. It was a one-off thing and you're sorry. I'm over it, really," John sipped from his tea and focused on an article about a house fire.

Sherlock stared at John hesitantly for a few moments before bending down to collect the shattered mug. He kept his eyes on John to check for signs of anger but found none in his relaxed shoulders. Sliding the shards into the bin, Sherlock frowned and bit his lip.

"John-"

"Afternoon, boys." Mycroft stepped into the apartment, twirling his cane. "How are we?"

"Excellent. How about you?" John asked. The cheer in his tone was almost but not quite forced.

"A lot better than Sherlock," Mycroft laughed. "You look like hell, little brother. What happened? Did you get hit by a bus?"

"With you in the room, I'd _love_ to be hit by a bus," Sherlock retorted, grabbing himself another mug.

"Don't be that way, Sherlock. I've come to tell you that mummy is insisting you get a job. You've been graduated for almost a year now and it's time you got out there."

"What if I don't want a job?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows.

"No one cares want _you_ want, Sherlock. Everyone needs you to _grow up_ and start living in the real world. Get rid of this childish fantasy that you can draw your way through life," Mycroft said, leaning forward on his cane. "You need to grow up before Mummy comes down here herself."

"Let her come," Sherlock shrugged, turning his back. "See if I care."

"Sherlock, please," Mycroft rolled his eyes. "When will you move on from these stupid dreams of yours?"

"I wouldn't hold my breath, brother mine," Sherlock said, smiling sarcastically.

"Don't get smart with me. I'm fed up with you treating me this way, Sherlock, I have a mind to take you home right now," Mycroft growled.

"Alright, boys, that's enough," John tried, standing up. "Let's be civil."

"Stay out of it," Mycroft advised John coldly.

"Don't speak to him like that," Sherlock said, walking over. "You never speak to my John that way. Understand?"

"Oh, he's your John, is he? When were you planning on making that public?" Mycroft asked.

"None of your business," Sherlock huffed, moving closer to John.

Mycroft let out a short laugh and moved his cane into the other hand. "All aside, you need to move on from this, Sherlock. Find a proper job, a better apartment, a better life-partner," his eyes flicked disdainfully over John. "For the love of God, please."

"You need to leave," Sherlock said quietly, his grip on John's hand tightening. "_Now_."

Mycroft's eyebrows raised and he stepped back. "Fine," he said. "But expect me back with Mummy." He turned on his heel and left the apartment, the clicking of his shoes disappearing down the stairs.

"Who shoved the stick up his ass?" John asked jokingly, turning to Sherlock. Sherlock looked away and shook his head. John frowned and cupped Sherlock's face. "Hey, what's the matter?"

"He always does that," Sherlock said quietly. "I'm sorry he insulted you like that, John."

"I'm fine. Are _you_ okay?" John asked.

"I'm fine," Sherlock nodded. "I have to go get the kettle."

…

Sherlock rested his head on John's chest and listened to the beating of his heart against his ear. He laid in silence, John's arms tight around his shoulders, and listened. He counted the steady thumps as they passed and matched his breathing to John's. It took a full five minutes before Sherlock grasped the courage to talk.

"Do you think I should get a job?" he asked, toying with the blanket.

"What?" John asked, looking down at him.

"I think I'm going to get a job," Sherlock said. "And I might tidy this place up a bit. It's a tad messy, don't you think?"

"Sherlock, is this because of what Mycroft said?" John asked quietly.

"Not at all, I just think it would be nice to have a clean place."

"You've always hated clean, Sherlock. Don't lie to me."

"Maybe he's right," Sherlock said, rolling away from John.

"_I _don't want you to change a damn thing about yourself," John said, turning on his side to face Sherlock. "Isn't that enough for you?"

"I just want to fit in," Sherlock said, facing the opposite way.

John sighed and lay back down, closing his eyes. He decided it would be wise to talk in the morning.

…

Come morning, Sherlock wasn't there. Assuming he had gone job-hunting, John rolled his eyes and went back to sleep.

…

Lunchtime, still no sign of Sherlock. John tried ringing his cell, no answer.

…

By the time it was six thirty, John had called everyone and heard nothing good back. He was starting to worry. John had phoned Greg Lestrade and he was staying over with John until Sherlock came home. He thought about phoning the police but figured Sherlock was like a cat in this instance. He'd come back when he got hungry or cold.

Seven o'clock and John's phone rang. "Sherlock?" he asked, picking up without checking.

"John, I'm sorry," Sherlock said slowly. Wind crackled on the other end of the phone.

"Sorry about what? Running off? I'm not mad, Sherlock, just worried," John replied. "_Please_ come home?"

"I'm afraid I can't do that, John," Sherlock said. "That's why I'm sorry."

"What're you talking about?" John asked cautiously.

Greg grabbed John's shoulder and pointed to his phone. "John, we need to go."

"What, why? I'm talking to Sherlock."

"I've just gotten a text from Donovan. Apparently Sherlock is balancing on top of St. Bart's."

"Shit," John turned back to the phone. "Sherlock, you still there?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. The wind picked up and Sherlock let out a shuddery breath.

"I'm coming to get you, okay? Everything's going to be fine," John assured him.

"No, don't. It's not worth it."

"Sherlock, shut up, shut up, you're worth everything. I'm coming to get you."

…

The taxi rolled up to St. Bart's and John leapt out. He ran over, the phone pressed to his ear, and looked up to see Sherlock. He was sitting on the very edge, his feet swinging and the phone in his hand.

"Has anyone tried getting _up there_ with him?" John demanded.

"He's shoved something into the door's lock, jamming it. They're trying to break through the door but it's fuckin' heavy."

"Sherlock, hey, talk to me," John said, returning to the phone.

"John, I'm so sorry I never meant to call you I just needed to hear your voice one more time," Sherlock cried, his voice breaking.

"Now, come on, we're gonna get you down from there and we're gonna forget all this," John ran a hand down his face and blinked back his tears. "Hey, we could run away to fuckin' France or wherever you wanted to go. Elope like those cliché couples."

"You know I despise clichés, John," Sherlock choked out, sniffing loudly. "I'm so sorry you have to see this, John. You weren't supposed to see. You were supposed to be home. I shouldn't have called. I've just fucked up again, I'm so sorry."

Everyone around gasped as Sherlock leant forward, looking over the edge. "This will kill me, wouldn't it John?" he asked.

John breathed in and out slowly. "Don't do this."

"Why not? Mycroft wouldn't care. I'd stop disappointing him with my lifestyle. You wouldn't have to put up with my drug habit anymore. Which is an addiction, by the way, not a one-time thing. I should've told you earlier. Mrs. Hudson would be grateful the twat from the upstairs apartment was gone. You could find someone so much better to love…"

"Shut up, Sherlock, shut up," John said, walking forward. "I love you for you, alright? I don't care that you don't have a job, I don't care about Mycroft, I don't even care that you're an addict. These are things we can get past _together_."

"Please don't try to talk me out of this, John," Sherlock said. He stood up slowly, his arms balanced out. "I'm sorry."

"No, don't."

"Goodbye John," Sherlock said. He threw the phone down and threw his arms out. The sweater he wore, which John recognized as his own, billowed in the wind as he outstretched his arms and fell forwards off the edge.

"_**SHERLOCK!**_"

…

John stared at the floor, his tea long-since gone cold. He didn't want to move. Lestrade sat on the couch across the room. He had been staring at John for the past half an hour.

Sherlock sat in his usual chair, his head in his hands and a blanket around his shoulders. "I don't understand why I need this blanket."

"Shut up," John said, not moving his eyes from the floor-rug. Sherlock put his head back in his hands and sniffed quietly. He was trying so hard to hide his tears from them.

Lestrade stood up and grabbed his coat. "I'd best be off," he said quietly. "I'll be 'round tomorrow." He nodded to John and left, closing the door behind him.

John didn't move an inch. Sherlock looked up at him and wiped his eyes. "Say something," he begged. "Anything. Yell at me. Hit me. Anything but this god awful silence."

"What were you thinking?" John murmured. "What _the fuck_ were you thinking?"

"I'm so sorry, John, -"

"Don't, Sherlock, just don't," John said, standing up suddenly. "I was so worried about you. Do you know what it feels like to have the one good thing in your life threaten to _jump off a building_?" he said, his voice rising with every word. _"You were so lucky they broke through that door in time to grab you."_

Sherlock looked up at John. "Why don't you leave? Isn't that what people do?"

"You still don't understand, do you?" John laughed. "I'm still here because I love you and I don't want to leave you!"

"I don't understand how you can still love me!" Sherlock yelled, standing up. "All I am is a nuisance to you!"

"DON'T YOU DARE SAY THAT, SHERLOCK HOLMES, DON'T YOU DARE!" John shouted. "IVE LOVED YOU SINCE DAY ONE, DON'T THINK IM WALKING OUT ON YOU NOW!"

"BUT WHY?" Sherlock screamed, crumpling down onto a heap on the ground and heaving out a sob.

John dropped down onto his knees next to Sherlock and pulled him into an embrace. He breathed in slowly, tears falling down his cheeks. He held Sherlock impossibly close and clenched his fists into the sweater he still wore.

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock whispered. "John, I'm so sorry."

"Don't do it again," John mumbled back. "I'll have a bloody heart attack next time."

"There wont be a next time," Sherlock said. "I hope."

"Good."

….

John woke up on Christmas morning with Sherlock in his arms. Sherlock was warm next to him, contrast against the cold wind he felt blowing through the window they had accidently left open. It was colder than John had thought it was going to be.

Sitting up slightly, but keeping Sherlock to his chest, John blinked a few times as he stared at the window. A small pile of snow had settled in their room, a line of it powdering the windowsill. John shook Sherlock slightly to wake him and was met with an uncongenial groan and a head nudge.

"Sherlock, wake up," John whispered.

"Why," Sherlock replied, moving closer into John's chest. "I was having an excellent dream and now you've woken me up and I'm cold. How dare you."

"It's cold because it's snowing. Wake up, you shit."

Sherlock squinted up at John and frowned. "No need to be rude, John," he said, sitting up and ruffling his hair. "Oh, look. It's snowing."

John rolled his eyes and threw the sheets back. The cold air hit him and he bit back a gasp, bracing himself against the temperature. Sherlock curled up around the blankets and frowned deeper.

"Can we go investigate later?" he asked quietly, re-closing his eyes.

"Well. No."

John leant over and pulled the blankets and sheets away from Sherlock, watching as he folded in on himself slowly. "Stop that," he whined. "Give me the blankets, John."

"No. Come see the snow with me," John said, wiggling into his trousers and grabbing the sweater Sherlock knitted him. "Please?"

Sherlock sat up with his eyes still closed. "I hate you," he said. John threw Sherlock's shirt at him and grinned.

"But it's Christmas. You can't hate anyone on Christmas!"

"Watch me," Sherlock huffed, pulling on his shirt.

"Oh, shut up," John said affectionately. "Now get dressed. We've got snow angels to create."

**The End**


End file.
